


Clean

by ghostofgatsby



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: BDSM, Blow Jobs, Boot Worship, Boss/Employee Relationship, Dom/sub, Foot Fetish, Hand Jobs, Janitor AU, Kneeling, M/M, Service Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-05-30 04:59:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6409825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofgatsby/pseuds/ghostofgatsby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"<em>Kneel.</em>" Trott snaps.<br/>The tone makes Smith's breath stutter; his muscles tense. Trott's pointing at the floor expectantly, and even though the order is strange, Smith can’t keep him waiting. He’s already in trouble as it is.<br/>Slowly, shakingly, he lowers himself to his knees.<br/>"Good..." Trott sighs, leaning back in his chair. "I've decided you're going to make it up to me." He says, observing Smith with a vaguely interested expression. "I want you to clean my boots with your tongue."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clean

**Author's Note:**

> Look, somebody had to.  
> There’s hardly a clean thing about this but, hey. Write the filth that _you_ like to read.
> 
> The plot of this is only for the sake of the boot-licking. I imagine the boots are like knee-high work boots, but not rain boots- think kinkier.
> 
> back to that same old blowjob-handjob combo again. classy.
> 
> reblog: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2016/04/11/clean-ghostofgatsby/
> 
> cw: Trott is in a position of power/authority over Smith, which makes this thing between them kinda sketchy, but Trott does give Smith an out, and Smith is okay with what they're doing.  
> If I need to tag anything else, let me know.

It’s been a _long_ fucking day.

Smith hangs up his mop, broom, and scanner one by one, lethargy seeping through his veins. Hours of cleaning and sanitizing have made him exhausted. The stench of the chemicals still stings his nose, and he’s a little dizzy from the fumes yet. He’s covered in grime. He’s ready to clean himself up and go home, but as he slams his locker shut someone to his left clears their throat.

Smith looks up.

The dark eyes of Trott, his supervisor, look back at him. Trott has his arms crossed over his chest and an electronic file in his hand. And he looks completely unimpressed.

“Smith.” Trott greets curtly.

“Sir..." Smith replies. There's no one else left in the warehouse but them- all the other workers have gone home for the night.

“Your cleaning lately has been...mediocre at best.” Trott starts, and Smith swallows thickly.

He can't help the fact that he has a hard time staying on task. Music helps him, but the other workers on his team don't like it, and had the jukebox banned altogether in retaliation for Smith's incessant polka music. Bastards.

Smith expects Trott to tell him more about how he’s screwed up, about the explosions he's caused too often to count, about his low cleaning rates because he knocks over all the fucking buckets, but Trott doesn’t.

“Hit the showers, and see me in my office when you're done.” Trott instructs, giving him a look for his grimy appearance. “I want to have a word with you about your performance before you go.”

Smith nods in acquiescence. He watches Trott turn and walk away, and resolutely heads towards the showers.

Fifteen or so minutes later, he’s swapped his hard hat, gloves, jumpsuit, overalls, and boots out for jeans, a beaten pair of trainers, and a hoodie.

He knocks on the open door to Trott’s office.

"Sir?” Smith starts. “Um, look, I just wanted to say...I really need this job, and I-"

Trott tuts quietly. "I'm not going to fire you, Smith."

Smith's brows furrow. "You're...not?" He had a pity speech and everything.

"No." Trott sets his tablet aside and gestures for Smith to take a seat. "I'd consider this a warning, Smith, that if you don't improve your ratings, your employment here _will_ be terminated.”

Smith sinks into the chair across from Trott, and listens carefully.

"As it stands, we can’t afford to rehire someone new, and we'd like to keep you.” Trott continues, folding his hands where they lie atop his desk. “The work you _do_ accomplish _is_ good work, though it lacks finesse. The only question is if you can meet our standards with what we’re demanding of you.”

"Whatever you want me to do to improve my ratings, I'll do it." Smith interjects quickly.

Trott nods with a solemn look on his face. "What can we do to help you be a better employee?"

_Better employee?_ "You're...really asking that?" Smith blinks back in surprise.

"Yes. Believe it or not, Smith, but some companies, and some supervisors, actually care about their employees.” Trott’s tone very blatantly says, “I'm one of them.”

"Um...okay, well..." Smith tells Trott about his workmates and the music incident, about his tendency to wander off and try to accomplish something on his own when no one’s giving him any directions.

Trott nods every once in a while, taking in what Smith tells him with a calm, sure expression.

"And the to-do list we get- it's _way_ too vague. There's no one telling you what _absolutely has to be done_ at each location, or what could be avoided. Like, I know the team that gets sent in doesn't know until we get there what we'll find, and that's part of problem solving. But I think there should be some sort of checklist, like 'incinerate things first' and 'stack the barrels and boxes in the designated locations instead of incinerating them'."

Smith gets the feeling he's saying too much. He feels like he's rambling, and quickly shuts up when he realizes this could be seen as complaining. He shouldn't be telling Trott how to run the place- he's his _supervisor_ , after all. _He’s_ the one who's in charge!

"So," Trott starts, leaning back in his chair with his hands folded in his lap. "You're suggesting orders, rules, guidelines...re-training our employees, perhaps?" His voice is curious instead of stern, and Smith tries to make himself relax.

"Yeah, I mean...I guess so. Sir." He licks his lips.

Trott raises an eyebrow. "You think that would benefit you, and the company as a whole?"

Smith nods tentatively.

Trott hums. He thinks for a moment, staring down at the files on his desk and slowly twiddling his thumbs. "I agree with you. That would certainly look better on both our records, and help better the company as a whole. _But_..."

Smith stiffens, worry rising up again as Trott meets his eyes.

"That still doesn't address what I'm going to do with _you_."

Smith swallows thickly. He watches as Trott sits up, shuffles files around on his desk, and pulls up Smith's schedule on his tablet. "I think, first of all, that I'm transferring you from your current clean-up team to mine."

"Are those the same hours?" Smith asks.

"Same hours, same rules. Less people, too, and we're not as strict on the music choice." Trott gives him a small smile.

Smith chuckles and smiles back, watching as his supervisor searches through reports and emails.

“Secondly, I’ll see about getting the task lists edited. Re-training will have to wait until I talk to _my_ supervisor, but this is all a good step in the right direction.”

Trott hands Smith his new schedule, and the tone in his voice makes Smith look up to meet his eyes.

“Changing the system around here will be a process. Work _with_ me, Smith, and things will go smoothly. I expect to see improvement over time, so keep an eye on your ratings and work to better them.”

The words are a dismissal, and Smith moves to stand. “Thank you, sir. For the help.” He shakes Trott’s hand across his desk. The man’s grip is firm but comfortable.

“Not a problem, Smith. Just don’t be a problem for me, and thank me when your ratings improve,” Trott says with a smile. “And if there’s anything else I can do, don’t hesitate to let me know.”

 

* * *

 

It’s been a fucking _terrible_ day.

He and Trott are the last ones left in the warehouse again. Smith isn't sure if he wants to make this a habit.

His supervisor has his feet up on his desk, and his brand new pair of boots shine in the dim lamp light.

They were new because Smith nearly got the team blown up today. He tossed a bin that had explosives in it into the incinerator, and didn’t realize soon enough to close the door completely. Trott was right next to him, and both their boots had melted right off from the heat. Thankfully the jumpsuits were basically fireproof footie pajamas, and had protected them from the majority of the blast. But the boots had been ruined.

Now here he is, having to earn back Trott's trust at the end of the day.

Smith stands at the doorway like a kicked puppy.

Trott sighs and beckons him into his office with the crook of a finger, not impressed. "You and explosives need to stop seeing each other." He says tartly. "But I have to admit, your quick thinking is what saved all our hides today."

Smith walks inside slowly, feeling a little bit of relief as he takes his seat across from Trott.

Once he realized, he _had_ corrected his mistakes. It just wasn’t enough to keep his record clean, or Trott’s boots from being melted.

"However, that being said,” Trott continues, making Smith nervous again. “ _You_ were the one to cause the mess in the first place, _and_ endanger the lives of our team. Now I've got to submit a nasty piece of paperwork about how it all went wrong, and you know I notoriously _hate_ paperwork."

Smith gulps.

Trott stares back at him, dark eyes brimming with annoyance. "As it is...I could, _if_ persuaded...write it up as an accident, with no one at fault. But that would require you to make it up to me, or else I could just terminate your work here and have your recklessness out of my hair."

"How can I make it up to you, sir?" Smith asks. "You can retrain me, add on more work hours, lower my pay, send me back to my other clean-up team, whatever. I know I screwed up; I’ll make it up to you. I swear.”

Trott watches him sternly. Smith can hear a pipe dripping just down the hallway, and wonders if Trott will have him work janitor duty overnight without pay. The warehouse certainly needs it.

“Whatever you need me to do, I'll do it." He adds adamantly.

For a moment, Smith thinks Trott is going to tell him to fuck off and get out, his work here is done. But instead, his supervisor pushes his chair back and sets his boots firmly onto the floor. Trott beckons him around the desk, and Smith obeys until he's standing in front of him.

Trott wordlessly points to his feet.

Smith restrains himself from raising an eyebrow, but confusion shows on his face.

" _Kneel._ " Trott snaps.

The tone makes Smith's breath stutter; his muscles tense. Trott's pointing at the floor expectantly, and even though the order is strange, Smith can’t keep him waiting. He’s already in trouble as it is.

Slowly, shakingly, he lowers himself to his knees.

"Good..." Trott sighs, leaning back in his chair. He picks a bit of lint off his pants before calmly setting his hands in his lap. "I've decided you're going to make it up to me." He says, observing Smith with a vaguely interested expression. "I want you to clean my boots with your tongue."

Smith swallows thickly, glancing from Trott's boots to the calm, sure, almost-smile on his face.

"They're clean already, as you know.” Trott assures him. “Brand new. Practically straight out of the packaging."

_He wants me to...lick his boots clean?_

The order makes a shiver twitch down Smith’s spine. He glances from Trott’s face to his boots and back again.

"If you'd still rather not, there are other things I can have you clean around the warehouse. _Not_ with your tongue, obviously." Trott gestures towards the door with his eyes and briefly grimaces.

Smith knows Trott has given him an out, if he wanted one. But the longer he kneels, with his jean-covered knees pressed to the cold concrete, the more he knows he doesn't need it.

"I want to make it up to you." He murmurs, meeting Trott's eyes again. "What do you want me to do?"

Trott’s mouth quirks up into a smile. "You can follow orders, can't you?" He asks.

Smith nods.

"Good. Then get to it." Trott taps his toes on the floor and smiles. "You can sit back on your haunches. I don't want your knees to tire out too early."

Smith nods again. He settles back on his heels, and focuses all of his attention on Trott's boots.

“Nice, aren’t they? I like these better than the others. Buckles instead of laces are going to make them a lot easier to clean up.” Trott says, giving his toes a wiggle.

There are three buckles, so shiny Smith can see his reflection distorted in them. One across the top of Trott’s foot, another on the side of his ankle, and the last at the side of his knee where the top of the boot ends.

“What do you think?” Trott asks with a smirk. “About the boots.”

“They’re...nice, I guess. Suits you, sir.” Smith answers. He swallows thickly.

Trott hums. “I suppose they do.” He clears his throat. “Pick up the foot on your right, first, and support it out in front of me.”

Smith cautiously picks up Trott’s foot, supporting his leg at calf and ankle. He can feel the heat of Trott’s skin beneath his jeans and the boots they’re tucked into. Smith is thankful his palms aren’t sweaty as he props Trott’s leg out in front of him.

“Good. Now- kiss along the stitching on the inner side the boot. Small pecks, and move slowly up to the top.”

Smith bends his head down slowly, trying to keep his breathing steady. He tucks his elbows in close to his body. His lips graze the stitching at the arch of Trott’s foot, and he presses a kiss to the delicate lines.

He moves slowly, methodically along. Every peck makes a soft noise against the leather, and Smith closes his eyes. He tries to keep his hands from shaking. He can feel Trott watching him, and it makes a shudder run through his shoulder blades.

He lets himself sink into the feeling. The floor is cold and hard beneath his knees, and the rubber soles of his shoes scrape the concrete as he adjusts his position. Smith continues kissing up the length of Trott’s calf, keeping Trott’s leg stable in the air. The boots smell of leather and shoe polish, and this close to Trott, Smith can smell a hint of the man’s cologne.

“Very good.” Trott says in appreciation, “Kiss along the strap at the top, and down the stitching on the other side. Don’t smudge your lips on the buckles.” His voice is calm and reassuring; unwavering and self-assured.

Smith takes a deep breath and follows Trott’s orders dutifully. His eyes flutter open only so he can keep track of his progress. He kisses down the stitching on the outer side of Trott’s foot, knowing his way by the feeling of thread against his lips.

There’s a warm, pleasant sensation running through him. Smith had never professed to having this sort of...reaction to things like this. Maybe it was the situation, or Trott himself, but _fuck_...

How can it feel so good when he’s on his knees like this?

“Good...” Trott says again, as Smith finishes kissing the other side of his boot. “I want you to lick them clean, now. Broad strokes. Bottom to top, and top to bottom.”

Here we are: the main event. Smith swallows thickly. He pulls back for a brief moment, shifting his gentle grip on Trott’s calf and ankle, and bends his head back down to Trott’s boot.

Smith pushes past the hesitation and slowly licks along each side of Trott’s foot. The taste of the leather is faintly chemical. Smith wrinkles his nose and keeps track of his progress with half-lidded eyes. His eyelashes flutter against leather. His tongue leaves behind a wet path from heel to knee as he licks slowly in long, broad lines just as Trott said to.

Smith avoids the straps and buckles. He takes his time licking up the front center of Trott’s boot, tongue pressing along the top of his foot and up his shin.

Trott lets out a pleased hum as he does, and Smith knows he’s doing something right. He turns Trott’s foot gently in his grasp. The chair shifts above him, and then Trott’s petting his hair and down the nape of his neck.

Smith arches into the touch as he continues to lick up the front of Trott’s boot. When he reaches Trott’s knee, he sucks in a breath. How can this feel so _good?_

Smith opens his eyes and pulls away. The leather before him is spit-slick and shiny, and Smith sneaks a glance up at Trott.

_Fuck_...

Smith is immediately caught in the look on Trott’s face, of carefully drawn confidence and only vaguely hidden arousal. Trott’s eyes are like kindled flames, burning into him with such focus that Smith feels like he’s catching fire.

"Good. Very good..." Trott murmurs lowly. His knuckles stroke Smith’s cheek, and he tucks a lock of hair back into place behind his ear. “Nicely done, Smith."

Smith hides his pleased smirk and swallows thickly.

“You can put that foot down, now.” Trott smiles.

Smith gently lowers Trott’s foot to the ground. He looks up at Trott and waits with his palms resting on his thighs.

“Next one.” Trott nods. “Same thing.”

Smith licks his lips as he takes Trott’s other leg in his hands. He makes sure not to rush; he doesn’t want to spoil things.

Trott murmurs praise above him, and his fingers return to Smith’s hair. Smith wishes Trott would touch him more, but he enjoys what he does give.

He reminds himself this is to earn Trott’s trust back. If he does a good job, he’ll have a record as clean as Trott’s boots.

Smith looks up at Trott as he works this time, feeling more confident as he goes. The way Trott looks at him makes him hot under his skin. He can feel himself straining against his jeans, but the only thing he focuses on is his lips and tongue against leather and thread.

Once Smith is finished with Trott’s left boot, he presses a kiss to the top of his foot and lowers it gently back to the ground.

Trott gives him a wry smile. Smith looks up at him with his hands on his knees, fingers digging in to keep from thinking about his obvious arousal.

Which Trott notices immediately, because of course he does. He merely smirks without saying anything, and pulls his hand away from Smith’s hair.

Smith misses his touch at once.

“Up off your feet.” Trott orders. “Arms behind your back, if you’d like.”

Smith curls the fingers of one hand around the wrist of the other, putting his arms behind his back, and gets up off his haunches. The concrete digs into his knees.

What more is there to do? Hasn’t he made it up to Trott by now?

Trott scoots his chair a little closer to Smith until they’re a breath apart. His knees are just shy of Smith’s hips, and he bends in closely.

Smith stares into Trott’s eyes. He’s taken aback like a moth to a flame, picking out the different shades of brown within his irises. Their noses are almost brushing. He can feel Trott’s breath against his lips.

"May I?" Trott asks softly, hand hovering down over Smith's crotch.

Smith nods once, unable to speak.

Trott’s hand pops the fly on Smith’s jeans, and pulls down the zipper teasingly slow.

Smith sucks in a shaky breath as Trott takes him in hand. His grip is firm and smooth, with enough pressure that Smith has to keep himself from bucking his hips.

Smith digs his nails into his wrist. He didn’t realize how turned on he was, how close his is, just from _licking_ his supervisor’s _boots_.

He holds back a moan.

Trott’s intently watching him fall apart. With every stroke, as the seconds tick over, Smith gets closer to his own undoing.

Trott’s stare is intense, but Smith can’t look away.

He bites his lip when Trott’s thumb brushes along the head of his dick. He’s so fucking close, and Trott’s moving _so slowly_ -

“Don't come until I say.” Trott whispers.

Smith cuts off a moan in the back of his throat. He’s breathing heavily, panting with the slow slide of Trott’s hand against him. It seems like forever, that he’s stuck in this time loop. Getting closer to completion, but it’s never enough to take him over. His arms and legs shake with the strain that it’s taking to keep himself upright and immobile.

Trott bends his head closer, until his lips brush Smith’s ear. His hand quickens its pace.

“Come for me, Smith.” He whispers.

Smith tips over the edge with a quiet gasp. His hips jerk forward, eyes fluttering shut as he rocks into Trott's hand. His climax rushes over him, shaking through him, lights flashing behind his eyes.

“That's it...very good.” Trott praises, withdrawing his hand and pulling back. “You can sit back, now.”

Smith slumps heavily, hanging his head and trying to catch his breath. He hadn't come that hard, since...ever, maybe.

" _Fuck_..." He whispers, hoping the curse was just soft enough that Trott wouldn't hear it.

"Good?" Smith hears Trott ask. He hears the chair creak a little as Trott moves away and presumably cleans off his hand.

"Yes. _Fuck_ , yes. Sir." Smith murmurs, opening his eyes and looking up.

Trott's smiling at him softly, with his own face flushed and a tent in the front of his jeans.

Smith's eyes dart between Trott's eyes and his crotch. "Would you...could I help with that? Sir?" He asks, licking his lips.

Trott chuckles. "You can call me Trott, you know." He murmurs, fingers making quick work of his fly. "But yes, you can."

Smith leans in greedily, scooting as close as he can get to Trott's chair.

Trott caresses Smith’s cheek very briefly and guides his head forward.

_This_ , Smith has done before. He follows the cues Trott gives him, using his lips and tongue on Trott’s dick and bobbing his head up and down. He practically melts at the feeling of Trott’s fingers in his hair.

"That's it...fuck, Smith- _yes_." Trott pants, groaning quietly.

Smith’s secretly proud he could get this kind of an enthusiastic response out of Trott. Trott made him fall apart, and now it’s Smith’s turn to give back in kind.

After Trott comes, Smith sits with his head on Trott's knee while Trott pets his hair and comes down from his high. When a few minutes pass, Trott pulls his hand back and does up his jeans.

"You can get up off your knees now." He says quietly, and Smith moves to stand.

"Did I make it up to you, you think?" Smith asks cheekily, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He leans up against Trott's desk to stretch out his sore legs.

Trott laughs quietly. It’s nice, seeing him more relaxed and not as strict as he is on the job.

"Yeah, you did." Trott answers. He smiles back at Smith, lips curling up into a promise of something more.

Smith grins. If this was the kind of thing he got out of staying after work...he ought to see his supervisor more often.

**Author's Note:**

> Do _you_ like random headcanons about pining and angst? How about bonus content on fics, and music recommendations? Pictures, MS Paint doodles, and more?? Do you wish ghostofgatsby just had a frickin tumblr so it'd be easier???  
>  Too bad on the last one. Soz.  
> But otherwise, you're in luck! Check out _ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com!_ *glitter and sparkles fly into the air* _It's a thing that exists! More posts coming soon._  
>  Also feel free to email me to talk betaing/headcanons/etc. My inbox is open unless my profile says otherwise.  
> (You can tell I'm sleep deprived while I write this, because I'm rambling. Sorry. Have another paragraph or two!)
> 
> I'm just trying to get the word out there *shrug*. I do get more traffic now than I did in the first few months. And there have been a lot more of you interacting here on ao3, too, which is fantastic. (Hello! Thank you! I appreciate it ^^)  
> Even after having the blog for six months, I'm not sure what I really want out of it. I'm bad at blog-keeping when it comes to writing posts regularly, but I have a lot of drafts saved up that I could post soon. I try to post more when there's a gap between fics.  
> But anyway- don't feel bad if you're too busy to email/check the blog. Real life is like that, I know. I don't want people to feel like they have to go out of their way just to talk to me, since the community mostly resides on tumblr/talks on skype. I'm just...providing the option.  
> Thank you to those who do, though...I appreciate it.
> 
> (...I really need to get some sleep. Ugh.)


End file.
